


The Adventure Of The Bogus Laundry (1906)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [223]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Cock Rings, Coping, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Gay Sex, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, Restraints, Scenting, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-29
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-21 08:37:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11940396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: I, John Watson, maintain that this was not a real case, and that some blue-eyed genius was being a mean old meanie in making me include it in the Sherlock Canon. But he persuaded me – oh boy, did he persuade me! - so here it is.





	The Adventure Of The Bogus Laundry (1906)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fandom_Nerd_All_The_Time](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_Nerd_All_The_Time/gifts).



It was the last day of September, barely a week after our return from Eastbourne, when Sherlock received an invitation to a wedding of an acquaintance of his. Unfortunately said acquaintance not only now lived on Lismore, one of the Scottish islands, but presumably as he had helped them out during the dreadful “Hellatus” back in 'Ninety-Three, the invitation was for one person. Sherlock offered to write back and ask for my inclusion, but I noted that the wedding, scheduled for the end of October, was to be a very small affair, and I knew from listening to my patients (I treated people in the village and surrounding area, as there was no doctor for some miles around) as to how jealousies could be aroused if Person A’s spouse was invited when Person B’s was not. Though it would be a sacrifice, I would have to bite the bullet and let my friend go alone.

Sherlock left on a Thursday afternoon, October the twenty-fifth, to go to London for the night sleeper to Glasgow; I remember that the weather was grey and gloomy, not unlike my mood. The wedding itself was on Saturday morning, so he would not be back until the middle of Sunday at the earliest, more likely Monday. It was barely half a week, and I was glad that he was going as he had all but saved the groom’s life, but I had underestimated how lonely I would feel. In between some manly tears, I ended up taking one of his dirty shirts out of the laundry-basket and sleeping with it, so that at least I had his scent with me until he returned. I little knew then as to just how that act would come back to bite me with a vengeance.

I was also, rather foolishly, worried about Sherlock being on a train, especially as that year had been a bad one for the railways. The Salisbury crash earlier in the year had led to Sherlock hiring a carriage for our trip to Eastbourne in order to allay my fears, and although I knew that his route north would not go through Grantham (scene of the second inexplicable rail crash of that unfortunate year), his route being out of Euston rather than King's Cross, I could not shake the fear that something would happen whilst we were apart. I scanned the papers anxiously the next day for any news of such a calamity, and I loved him even more (if that were possible) for sending me a telegram from Oban on Friday to say that he was tired and footsore (and un-caffeinated, God help those around him!), but that he had made the ferry to Lismore, which meant that he was nearly there. He kept me updated regularly thereafter, though the news was mixed; the time of the wedding and reception meant that Sherlock could not make the afternoon ferry back to the mainland, but the hotel owner had put him in contact with a local fisherman who could take him to Oban on Sunday in time to get a train connecting with the night sleeper to London. Further telegrams on his way back from Glasgow and London only heightened my expectations, and Monday's welcome-home sex was amazing for two men in their fifties! 

I do not remember much of that November, except that the fireworks most definitely did not end on Guy Fawkes' Night!

+~+~+

December arrived, and I was busy decorating the cottage (and avoiding my lover's smirk at my wincing every time I stretched!) when we had an unexpected visitor. It was Mr. Lucius Holmes.

“Granny Rose is failing”, he told Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked sad, but clearly he did not see what was expected of him. His brother sighed.

“Father wants to gather the family one last time for her”, he said. “No husbands or wives, just blood.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply.

“Luke”, he said warningly, “if I go, and then find that what you have just said is untrue, you know that I will come straight back without seeing her. I mean it!”

That was no idle threat. The ghastly Mycroft Holmes had invited Sherlock to a family affair last year, in which I had not been included, and my friend had arrived at the family home to find almost everyone else’s spouse or partner was in attendance, even the late and un-lamented Mr. Ranulph Holmes' widow. He had immediately turned round and had come straight home, despite his family’s efforts to get him to change his mind, and had insisted on Sir Charles making a full apology to me. I knew also that he had not spoken to his eldest brother since, although as I have said previously, there was little love lost between them. Mycroft Holmes only kept his disapproval of our relationship hidden because, as Sherlock wryly put it, 'the reach of the law is long, but the reach of Mother is even longer'.

“You can trust me, Sherlock”, his brother said coaxingly. “I am having to leave Alfie behind. I know how difficult it is.”

Mr. Lucius Holmes had moved recently to Godwinsford, the village near to Dibley where his lover's half-brother Mr. de Klerk (whom we had helped out in “The Sussex Vampire” case) had lived. The latter had recently married a young lady from the former village and had sold Dibley Hall to move into a much more comfortable house across the valley, where he and his wife were expecting their first child by the following spring.

“How long for?” Sherlock asked, still looking suspicious.

“Not more than a few days”, his brother said firmly. “The ghastly old battle-axe wants a visit, not for us to stand around waiting for her to peg out!”

I smiled at that. ‘Granny Rose’ was Lady Rebecca's mother; her real name was Elaine, but as that was by one of those odd coincidences also the name of Sir Charles' mother, the former was usually known by her middle name. I had never met her, for which I was somewhat thankful as Sherlock had described as 'even worse than my mother', but I knew that she had a habit of lashing out with her walking-stick at anything or anyone that displeased her, family included. Sherlock turned to me.

“I promise that I will only be gone for a week at most”, he said firmly. “You will be all right?”

“Of course”, I said with a smile. “I survived your Scottish trip. You go and pack. I will fine.”

He smiled back at me, and went upstairs. His brother was looking at me, and I had the uneasy feeling that he could see through me far too easily.

Mr. Lucius Holmes drove Sherlock to Acklington Station, from which they would take the train to London. I waved my lover goodbye, then went slowly back into the house. Only then did I break down in tears. God, I was a wreck! Sherlock would be ashamed of me if he had known, but a long lonely time without the light of my life stretched ahead of me, and I did not know how on earth I was going to get through it.

+~+~+

Somehow I got through it, though when Mr. Lucius Holmes’ carriage dropped Sherlock off at the door and the former declined to come inside, I silently blessed the man. I was in the main room when Sherlock burst through the door, and within seconds I had a blue-eyed genius all over me, panting as if he had run a race.

“That was so horrible!” he declared. “I do not care what friend or family member calls next time, I am not going without you! That is a promise”

I could tell from his scent how distressed he was, as doubtless he could tell from mine how miserable I was feeling. We quite literally clawed each other's clothes off in our eagerness, and how we got to the bedroom without sustaining a major injury, I do not know. Of course Sherlock was undressed first, and when I had finally managed to get myself out of a pair of trousers which seemed to have been glued to me, I looked up to see him naked on the bed, his legs drawn back and ready for me. I was fifty-four years old, and I briefly wondered if I would live to see fifty-five when I saw that. Then he moaned in anticipation, and my higher brain functions promptly ceased.

Somehow I managed to retain enough sense to quickly open him up, my cock already leaking in anticipation at being inside him where it belonged. I tried to ease in gently, but even at fifty-two he was as flexible as ever, and he scooted down the bed, impaling himself on me and letting out a satisfied groan as I yelped in surprise. We usually took our time when coupling, but this was raw sex and I was blinded with lust, racing towards my climax and coming far sooner than I would have wished. I came violently, yelping in agonized relief before falling onto my hands, trying not to crush him.

“John?” he grunted.

My vision returned, and I briefly wondered why he had not come as well. Then I realized that the sneaky little bastard was actually wearing the cock-ring that I had bought for him, which he had had engraved that last time he had had to visit London (where on earth had he found a jeweller to do _that?_ ). Though still recovering, I could see what he had in mind, and moved onto my front next to him. He quickly fingered me open, and then entered me with the ring still on, groaning as he achieved his own relief. Like a dog to a bone, he found my prostate at once and began to pummel it mercilessly with his cock, causing my eyes to roll back in my head. I let out a guttural snarl, and he must have removed the ring because suddenly he was coming inside of me, hissing his joy as he painted my insides white. Incredibly for a man in his mid-fifties I promptly came a second time, my balls almost aching as they were drained, but any pain was banished by the dead weight of a six-foot blue-eyed genius falling inelegantly on top of me and lying there, our two hearts beating as one.

All right, maybe I had missed him just a tiny little bit.....

+~+~+

If I had thought the welcome-home sex after our first separation had been good, what followed in the next week was astounding. It was as if Sherlock had been denied sex for an entire decade, not just seven days, and was determined to make up for lost time. Usually at times like this he preferred to take the lead, but this time he seemed determine to even things out, happy both when pounding me into the mattress or riding me into a semi-comatose state. I suppose we must have eaten and whatnot, but all I can remember for that week was Sherlock wanting (and of course getting) sex every time he was awake. By the end of it I wondered if we might have to order a bath-chair, as I could barely walk!

I made the mistake of mentioning this to Sherlock, and realized a moment too late that he might take it as an invitation to stop. Lord above, why had I said that? He proceeded to walk me all around the cottage, holding me impaled on his cock! I broke yet another cock-ring (not the engraved one, thankfully); they really do not make things like they used to.

It was only as I lay there on the seventh day that something occurred to me. I turned carefully to the scruffy sex-maniac next to me and ran a finger through his thick stubble (shaving had been a low priority as of late).

“Mrs. Whitlow has not called”, I said, kissing him tenderly on the forehead. He nestled closer to me and nibbled at my neck. 

“I dropped my washing in at her cottage when we passed on the way here”, he whispered back. “I also told her that we would not need her for at least a week, and would let her know when to bring it back. Of course I paid her anyway.”

I frowned.

“You planned this!” I said accusingly.

“Yes”, he said unashamedly, slowly grinding his crotch against mine. “And now I think I'm ready for Round Thirty-One.”

I sighed, and decided to lie back and think of England whilst he had his way with me. There were worse fates.

Few better, though!

+~+~+

In our many cases together, it was often the small things that tripped a criminal up and allowed Sherlock to bring justice upon them. So it was with me in this instance, and I only realized my mistake the following Thursday when Mrs. Whitlow returned with all Sherlock's washing. The excellent woman did not even raise an eyebrow at the extra load of both our clothes and bedding that she took away in its place.

Well, all right, maybe one eyebrow. And her knowing look was uncomfortable, if well-merited. I think she just about suppressed what sounded like the start of a snigger. It was close, though.

Sherlock was putting his washed clothes away when I came back from my walk later that day, and I sat down to read the paper at leisure. After a while however, I became aware that he was searching for something. I put the paper down.

“Have you lost something?” I asked.

“That “Bee Mine” jumper you got me from the Isle of Wight”, he said, looking adorably frustrated. “I do not recall taking it to London with me, and I thought it was in the pile to be washed that I left behind. But I checked earlier, and it was not there.”

Mercifully he was searching the small cupboard in which we kept the dirty washing basket, so he did not see my face turning bright red. I had made it through the week partly by taking that jumper and sleeping with it, the lingering scent of Sherlock keeping me going when I could not have the man himself. In my excitement at his return, I had forgotten to add it to the rest of the dirty laundry. It was still folded away neatly under our bed, now doubtless redolent of my own scent as well as his.

“You are sure that you did not miss it, or perhaps took it with you?” I asked, trying to hold my voice steady. “Maybe it was unpacked in London and left there?”

“I shall have to send a telegram to Father, and get him to check my room”, he said. “That jumper is so warm, and I do not want to be without it with winter coming.”

He went upstairs to search there, and I let out a breath. This was seriously embarrassing. Though I loved being scented by my man, I still felt embarrassed at my having been reduced to holding my mate's dirty clothes at night to stop me from crying. I would have to take the damn jumper to be washed somewhere else, and get it back without his noticing.

+~+~+

Of course I was John Watson, which meant that I could not catch a break. Even though the red-hot passion of his return had faded to our usual gentle simmer – we were in our fifites, damnation! - Sherlock spent virtually all his time when he was not looking for that damned jumper close by me, and was visibly uneasy when we were apart. I even had to be in the garden when he tended to his bees, as he said that he felt uneasy with me out of sight. I of course felt the same, but it made it damnably near impossible to get the jumper out of the house. The villagers were totally unhelpful; noen of them sent for my help during that time. It did not help when his parents disobligingly wired back far too quickly, guaranteeing that the dratted thing was not in his room in London.

I finally got lucky just over a week later, when Sherlock contracted a severe cold and had to rest on the couch all day. Although I had the correct medicines with which to treat it, I lied and said I needed something from the chemist’s in the village, as well as needing to order some of my favourite cologne from London, of which I was running short (I was sure that I had had more than the single bottle that I had left, but then I was never very good at keeping track of things like that, as my mind was usually on more important matters). He was obviously cross at not being able to go with me, but I insisted he stay out of the driving rain. I was forced to give him a very thorough blow-job before he would let me go, but then as a doctor I had obligations to my patient which I felt obliged to fulfill. And I always put my patients first.

Kindly do not roll your eyes when reading my stories!

It was a Monday when I finally got down to the village, which I knew was when the other lady who took in washing, Mrs. Smith, did her laundry. I dropped the jumper off with her and explained that it was one of Sherlock’s favourites, and could she get it cleaned as soon as possible? I am sure that she wondered why I had not given it to Mrs. Whitlow (the reason was because that woman could gossip for England, and I was afraid she might let something slip), but Mrs. Smith smiled and took it. It seemed that I was going to get away with it.

After all these years, I really should have known better.

+~+~+

Typically, the weather decided to frustrate my plans, the squally winter rains continuing all day, which meant that it would take a long time for the jumper to dry properly. I spent some time in the village tavern, but when I returned to Mrs. Smith, she told me it would not be dry until that evening, and she would air it for me overnight. So I had to return without it.

The following day, I had to go in and pick the jumper up – and of course, bloody Lazarus had all but recovered, and wanted to go with me. God bless Mrs. Smith when she met us in the High Street that she said nothing about it, although Heaven only knows what she thought my motives were! Sherlock remained glued to my side, and I reached home feeling slightly depressed that I had been unable to retrieve the thing. 

That was, until we came back to the house and found something neatly folded on the table. Sherlock’s jumper. I stared at it incredulously, whilst he read the note that had been left beside it.

“It is from Mrs. Whitlow”, he said. “Apparently it got separated from the other items in the wash, and she only found it yesterday, so she washed it separately and brought it with her today.” His eyes narrowed. “Odd. I do not remember her carrying anything when she arrived earlier.”

“I did not see her”, I said, trying not to show my relief. The two washerwomen had clearly conspired to get my friend’s jumper back and spare me whatever embarrassment they thought I was facing, and whilst I could probably never look either of them fully in the eye again, at least I was in the clear with Sherlock. He examined the item of clothing as if it were a clue to some terrible murder, but then just smiled and took it away upstairs. I waited until he was gone before heaving a huge sigh of relief.

All together now. I really, really should have known better!

+~+~+

Sherlock was feeling particularly amorous that night, and cleared of the cloud that had hung over me in recent days, I was more than happy to oblige. The blue ties came out, and he bound my wrists and ankles to the four corners of the bed. I writhed ineffectually, my erection only increasing when he pulled out the black feather and began to run it down my chest. 

“Tell me about the jumper.”

I turned a colour that was probably redder than his best shirt. I was in no position to lie to him – I was in no position to do anything, if truth be told! – and he clearly knew or at least suspected something was afoot.

“Keep your mind on the subject, John”, he growled, applying the cock-ring before rubbing the feather gently up and down my cock. “The jumper?”

“What about it?” I managed.

“Why did you get Mrs. Smith to wash it?” he asked.

I was now going from red to white. Put some oil in me, and I could have acted as a flashlight!

“What do you mean?” I hedged. He sighed.

“Mrs. Whitlow always uses her own concoction of chemicals to wash our clothes”, he said. “Mrs. Smith, the only other lady who takes in washing in the village, uses a generic detergent. You know that I have a good sense of smell, so I know that Mrs. Whitlow did not wash that shirt, just as I know she did not bring it to the house today. Plus, the note was written by a left-handed person, yet Mrs. Whitlow, from whom it purported to come, is right-handed. What is going on?”

I blushed even more deeply.

“I had it”, I admitted.

He stopped his ministrations and stared at me.

“Why?” he asked.

“When you went to Scotland”, I said. “I kept going by sleeping with one of your shirts out of the laundry-basket. You were away a whole week this time, so I took that woollen monstrosity, knowing that you sweat when wearing it. It… kept me going. You know.”

This was so embarrassing. I did not think anything could make it worse, before Sherlock suddenly got out of bed and went across to his dressing-table, returning with a large glass cologne bottle. He sprayed a little on his hand and offered it to me.

“What does that smell of?” he asked.

I was confused, but dutifully sniffed it.

“A bit like my cologne”, I said. “Have you been borrowing it?”

“No. Stealing it.”

I looked at him, now completely confused.

“What?”

“Like you, I found surviving without the man I love very painful”, he said. “I barely slept at all during the Scottish trip, without you there. So I took a bottle of your cologne in this bottle to London with me. I doused the sheets with it at night, just so I could get some sleep. It worked a little, but I still missed you terribly.”

I stared at him in shock.

“So you are as bad as me!” I protested.

“Stealing clothes?” he grinned. “Conspiring with the villagers to keep your 'crime' covered up? Openly lying to me?”

I pouted.

“And I love it when you pout.”

I turned my back on him (well, I would have done had I not been tied down!).

“That was mean!” I said sulkily. “You knew, and you made me suffer!”

The feather was suddenly replaced by his smooth hand, gently rubbing me off.

“Then let me make it up to you”, he whispered.

And he did. Oh boy, how he did!

+~+~+

Several months were to pass until our next case, so time for a further vignette about life in Casdene.


End file.
